


to retread spirals i know well

by groundopenwide



Series: lads on tour [5]
Category: Bastille (Band), Music RPF
Genre: Feeeeeeelings, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27810859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: Playing bass has never been Ed’s strong suit.
Relationships: Charlie Barnes/Ed Wetenhall
Series: lads on tour [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805506
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	to retread spirals i know well

Playing bass has never been Ed’s strong suit. 

You’d think it wouldn’t be that different from playing a guitar (which is something he does, well, quite frequently), but it  _ is. _ Strumming the same chords over and over is lightyears away from riffing up and down the fretboard ‘till his pinkies are sore from having to stretch so far. Charlie insists it’s not that bad, but Charlie’s also the one who wrote these damn songs, so he’s more than a little biased.

“Switch to your third finger—there, like that,” Charlie tells him.

They’ve been practicing all afternoon. Ben got sick of their squabbling ages ago and dipped out to fetch dinner, so now it’s just Ed fucking up the same bit of  _ The Departure _ on a loop because Charlie wanted to try adding it to the set at the last minute.

(“I know we’re here as your touring band,” Ed told him earlier, after the tenth or so horrendous run-through, “but that doesn’t mean you can expect us to just—do whatever you want.”

“You’re doing it, though,” Charlie said with a smug little smile.)

He puts his third finger on the B string instead of his fourth, like Charlie says, but the bridge still comes out wretched sounding. He releases the neck of the bass, leaving it hanging from the strap around his neck, and throws his hands up in the air. 

“Fuck me.”

“You’ve almost got it.”

“The show’s in two hours, mate. I haven’t got a thing.”

Charlie shakes his head. He’s got that look in his eye, a look Ed’s seen many times before: after every failed audition, every  _ no, _ every person who dared to suggest Charlie’s music wasn’t good enough. It’s a look that says  _ you’re wrong. You’re wrong and I’m going to prove it. _

“Let me,” Charlie says.

And then he’s there, hovering inside Ed’s personal space with only the bass and a few scant centimeters separating them. He takes Ed’s left hand, eyebrows pinching together with focus, and places it on the fretboard, positioning each of his fingers so they’re in the correct spot. He’s calm. Utterly unphased. Consumed by the task at hand, while Ed—

(He’s thinking about High Wycombe a few years back. He’d brought Charlie home with him for Christmas since Charlie and his dad weren’t exactly speaking at the time. _I think you know me better than anyone,_ Charlie said, and it felt like he was meant to be there, sat on Ed’s childhood bed with a Muse poster on the wall behind him and rain tapping gently against the window. When Ed sat down beside him, Charlie reached for him like it was the only logical conclusion, like _closer_ was the only thing that made any sense. And at the time, it was. 

If only they’d stayed like that a little longer. If only Charlie had kept kissing him, if only they’d never gone back to their shit flat in Leeds, if only Charlie hadn’t then left for London—)

Ed can hear Charlie breathing, can see the sweat at his temples and the little scar on his chin from when he fell off his bicycle at age eight (it’s one of Charlie’s favorite stories to tell). His heart catches like a shard of glass in his throat.

“I—” he starts.

Charlie looks up at him. He seems to notice, finally, their proximity to one another. Recognition dawns on his face and he blinks hard, his fingers still hovering over Ed’s on the fretboard. Time pulls taught around them like a coil.

(The day Charlie told them he’d gotten the job—touring guitarist for a world-famous band—the three of them got pissed on cheap whiskey to celebrate and ended up half-asleep on the floor, Charlie’s head resting on Ed’s stomach. Their bodies were two intersecting lines, much like their lives had always been.  _ Don’t go,  _ Ed wanted to tell him, but he wasn’t selfish enough for that.)

Charlie’s eyes search his face, waiting. There are so many ways Ed could finish his thought:  _ I didn’t want you to go. I thought I was doing the right thing. I missed you after you left. I’ve missed you everyday since. _

Why is the truth always such an impossible task?

“I think I’ve got it now,” he says.

It’s all wrong. It’s not supposed to be this way— _ they  _ aren’t supposed to be this way. Ed wants to take it back as soon as he says it, but Charlie has already moved away. The moment has disappeared like it was never there in the first place.

“Right,” Charlie says. He sounds—disappointed, perhaps? Or maybe that’s just Ed’s wishful thinking. “Okay, then—shall we go again?”

**Author's Note:**

> [i swear i’m not making ALL of this up...](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bij0OQmBgnI/)


End file.
